Maimed Soul
by adriennett
Summary: "It's okay little one, you're safe now, I'm not gonna hurt you." - A stranger is staring at him, talking to him. He sounds so innocent, but what if it's a trap? He might hurt him. He doesn't want to feel pain anymore. He's like a soldier come back from a war, a poor maimed turtle in blue, begging for death. And that stranger is the only one who could save him.
1. Prologue

_Hey everyone. I know, I have works to finish (mostly short drabbles plus my novel with original characters), but when I found the beginning of this little piece of work, I couldn't help but to start writing it. This one is going to be a real multi-chapter story. I think I set the bar high this time, afraid of that I may not be able to do it, but I vowed to myself that I would never give up. It's pretty hard for a person who's not a native speaker, but it's fun at the same time._  
_Returning to the story, I think it's the most tragic and dark novel I've ever written. I hope the story line will be thorough and nerve-racking just like in my head._  
_Rated T (may change) for strong violence, physical/mental torture and language._

_Before you start reading, please count on that the following instalment is probably full of grammar/wording/spelling and all kind of mistakes (or maybe not?), so be careful and do not judge me. Like I said, I set the bar high this time. And due to lack of time, I'm not sure I can update fast. Thank you for understanding._

_I do not own TMNT, Nickelodeon does._

_Now, please enjoy. :)_

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**Prologue**

"_You're going to rot down here slowly and painfully..."_

The cell is dark and the walls have partially collapsed, cold flows inside through the small gaps. Nauseating smell spreads in the air—it's like burned flesh, mingled with blood that has splattered on the walls and the rock-hard concrete floor. Everything is so very dirty and horrible, even the spectacle itself is able to arouse our most terrible nightmares or send the stomach's bile at the back of our throat. From the ceiling, three thin strips of light illuminate the pedestal exactly where black spots, or rather some sort of writings contaminate the concrete. As our eyes adjust to the dark, we manage to notice that these black scrawls can be found everywhere. Lines, crossed out and some kind of dirty swearing what would never leave a decent person's mouth.

A prestigious-looking man is eyeing his victim with murderous gaze, as if he is a hungry beast that can hardly control its temper, and desires to fly at his prey to violently _shred_ it. Despite his strong yearning, he doesn't move, not yet. He continues watching his victim, who firmly leans against the wall, his tiny body lying curled up on the dirty floor and shaking. His green skin is covered with numerous injuries—there are old and new ones, bleeding and wound-covered scratches, and although they're different, have one thing in common: each causes terrible pain.

His eyes are dark and glassy, not showing any sign of life anymore—as if they are an abused animal's orbs. Maybe because he is no longer the person who he was before, but a tortured, despised carrion. With narrowed eyes he blinks at the man standing at the entrance, and notices that the door is wide open. He should escape—but he's unable to move a muscle, the throbbing feeling reaches his bones as he struggles to fill his lungs with air. Everything is painful, everything. Even the way he tries to keep his eyes open or swallow. His throat and whole esophagus have parched, his limbs have gone limb, stomach's empty and body's lost dangerously much weight. He has gone through too much suffering to withstand more and more pain. He doesn't have any healthy part of his body anymore and deep down inside his soul shattered—the pieces are so small that it is impossible to paste them together again. There's no life remained in him, but the desperate yearning for death. He wants to die, that's all he asks for. Not capable to endure more anguish—he has given up. He doesn't understand what keeps him still alive. He has nothing—no home, no family. Only the pain, the unbearable pain.

"P-p-please k-kill me a-already…!" That's all he can say for days now. These are the words of a broken soul, and it seems that despite repeating them every day—his captor is unwilling to fulfill his wish. Some kind of spark flashes in his eyes, as if he finds joy in the pleas of his tortured prisoner. After all, this is what he waited for so long. He succeeded by breaking him, permanently.

The prestigious man smiles faintly, and kneels down in front of his prey slowly, his hands stroking the wounded skin. "That's what I struggled for in those months. Why would I throw away the thing from myself I fought so hard for?" he says in a triumphant tone. As his palm touches the battered skin, his victim shudders, but not able to draw back. The man pulls his smile even wider. "It was not easy to break you. You are− were a strong and persistent fighter. You know, I was beginning to think that I would never be able to affect your spirit. But I did." He pronounces the words in such an intonation as if talking to a friend rather than an animal that can't understand him anymore.

Suddenly coughing attack rocks the prey's body, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. The man continues stroking his shoulder, soothing him as if he's a crying baby who's having a bad dream. "Shhh, it's okay, my trophy. It's okay. The misery will end soon, I promise."

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_So...? What do you think? It was literally a flashback. The real fun is about to begin. Want me to continue (or not)? :)_

_xx_


	2. The lonely veteran

_Hey guys! I just want to say thank you for the feedback, you make me jump in my seat! I'm here with the first chapter. In which you meet my OC - for the memory of my beloved grandfather._

_Before you start reading, I ask you to be careful with my (poor) English. (My friend offered to help, but she's been pretty busy lately. Translating is not so easy, though, it's great fun. Please excuse my mistakes and don't read if you don't like.)_

_Without further ado... :)_

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**One ~ The lonely veteran**

Something licked the deeply snoozing Sean Petrie's face. After he didn't exert any reaction, the licking spread all over his face, forcing him to moan and move.

"Okay, Bear, I'm awake!" the old man muttered and to prove his assertion stretched out his numb limbs, wiping the saliva off of his face with the back of his hand, then pushed himself into a sitting position. He tried to open his eyes, but suddenly was overwhelmed with dizziness, so he had to lean back in his bed. He liked to drink, but hangover wasn't his favorite. Maybe he had taken a little too far last night. However, he took too far every night, but just couldn't remember it the next morning.

Once he had decided not to get out of bed, his dog rushed to the front door, trying to inform his owner with loud barking and scratching that he had urgent things to do.

"Sorry, pal," Petrie mumbled, then struggled out of bed to open the door. Bear immediately stormed out, nearly knocking over the bedside cabinet. "Not so fast, buddy!" his owner called after him, and began to gather up all the fallen stuff. His movements froze as he found a badge with his name on it near at hand. He rubbed his eyes, dropping that object into the drawer before new memories could attack his mind.

We are all proud of our soldiers returning from war. We consider them heroes, look up to them, often daydreaming that one day our sons may walk in those shoes. Those, who stand in maintenance of this opinion, are all wrong. Because even though a life of a soldier who come home successfully to be celebrated seems so beautiful, sweet and promising, it's just some kind of mask to hide away from the loved ones those terrible things he had to go through on the battlefield. What happens there is all true—what happens after isn't. That was exactly how the old Sean Petrie thought, a veteran of the Vietnam War who lived in an old cottage in the middle of nowhere with a Dutch Shepherd and the fragments of his own maimed soul. He was well aware of what a military's life really was. Therefore he didn't ask for false celebration, false bliss—he had only one purpose in life: forgetting which hadn't proved to be easy especially if the only conversation partner was a dog that could only respond with barking.

The cloudy and gloomy toned days had flown together in the old Petrie's eyes—he hadn't known what day it was that day for four years now. While other survivors had asked a psychologist's help, he drowned his sorrow in drinks, hoping the caustic liquors would wash those many horrible things out of his brain. But it had never worked. At first, two glasses had been more than enough, but their effect was only felt until the alcohol worked in his system. After the effect was gone, he wanted more and more. Finally, he had fallen into the abyss of alcoholism where there was no escape from. He wasn't able to erase any of his memories—all remained to pull nightmares onto his pillow every single night.

The once brave and heroic young man was nothing anymore just a maimed bastard—whenever he seated himself, the chair collapsed, whatever he took in his mouth, always left a bad taste. How unfair life was!

Dizziness pulled Sean back from the word of fantasy. He shook his head, but without any success—every inch of him hurt awfully. He shambled to the kitchen where poured himself a glass of ice cold water. The room looked as if a bomb had detonated in it—dozens of dirty dishes on top of the furniture, trash on the floor and on the dining table including chewed newspapers and a tablecloth crumpled in the corner.

"Bear, _Let Op_!" Petrie shouted hoarsely. The Dutch Shepherd was immediately in the kitchen. He was a very loyal and obedient pet of the old soldier, except when he wasn't. Petrie punched Bear thoroughly—however, he could never stay mad at him. "You don't let me get bored, eh? Don't you? Right, _Foei_?

After letting go of the dog, the man began to clean up the kitchen and swallowed a few bites for breakfast. The clock hadn't hit eight by the time he finished so he decided to check into his own workroom to occupy his time. He put on some warm clothes and his boots then left the house with Bear.

It was cloudy outside—the biting wind made Petrie's wrinkled face blush and ruffled his grizzled hair. Nevertheless, the scenery was beautiful even now—the prolific green flowery fields, a small pond and the view of a village, which was so close, yet so far. He loved this place, because he was never bothered by anyone here and could let his dog free even for a whole day not to mention that the landscape always calmed his mood.

"_Vooruit_!" he shouted to Bear when the dog began to wag his tail wildly and plunged himself into the field's plants. Petrie couldn't help but to chuckle. Bear was a very vivacious and smart dog, knew lots of Dutch commands. The only friend of Petrie.

He let out a deep sigh and then targeted his workplace built next to the house. It was warmer inside, but also dark and strong musty smell filled the air. The small building was full of all sorts of old stuff chewed by the iron teeth of time and covered by thick veil of dust. Petrie, lighting a lamp, walked to a table in the middle of the workspace where today's work was already waiting. He had been working on a rocking chair lately since the old one's wooden elements hadn't sustained the rocking—but his main purpose was to take attention away from his disturbed memories.

Lots of shelves lined fixed on the walls with plenty of different tools. Petrie lifted a big box off of one of them, but he wasn't strong enough—he accidentally knocked over a small cabinet that landed on the ground with a loud crash.

"Oh, damn!" he cursed irritably and crouched down to pick up the fallen things. But he didn't expect he would find a rifle brought home from the war among the tools. Petrie recoiled—his breathing suddenly took on a rapid rhythm. He buried his face in his palms, trying to calm down. _Please, not now, not now!_ No use, his whole body began to tremble.

_Deafening explosion fills the air, followed by gunfire and frightened screams. The landscape suddenly becomes a huge gray mass, luring away the oxygen from people who are still standing on their feet. The young, energetic Petrie starts to run like crazy, but it feels he's not moving forward but constantly bumping into someone. He's dizzy, his nose is full of dust, ears whistling. He doesn't understand what is happening—as if he is not himself, as if the whole thing is just a dream… but it isn't._

_Suddenly, a powerful waft shoves everyone to the ground—people fall helplessly onto each other. The waft is hot like fire, burning terribly. Petrie feels as if his arms are being fried. Then unexpectedly many people cry out and the weight is removed from his back. He carefully rises to his feet, then blinks in order to clear his blurred vision. Several civilians and soldiers' clothes have caught fire, their screaming is painful, heart-breaking, their facial expressions are like people's who are being tortured. They are trying to get rid of their clothing, but it fails. Sobbing, they fall to their knees, saying something Petrie doesn't understand—he is just watching them with wide eyes. He cannot help it, his body is unable to move. _No… do something! They're going to die! Going to burn to death! C'mon!

_Then all of a sudden one intact soldier grabs his gun and shoots those burning civilians in the head who failed to get rid of the flaming garment. Sean's body involuntarily jumps as the dead bodies' brains' splash onto his face. That soldier's movements are rigid. He just killed them. Killed them. _No, this cannot be happening! _The sounds are blurred around Petrie—soon, he only hears his own heartbeat and sees the corpses with fear burnt into the expressions. He's staring at them for a long time when he notices that someone's tugging his shirt then pulls him up. But he can't feel it—he has become numb from the inside. He only hears echoes and his own, rapid heart's rhythm._

_"Those are bombing the houses!" Someone yells next to his ear, saliva splattered on his face. Sean wants to say something… anything, but his tongue won't work, his legs are shaking. They're killed. With cold blood. No. They're killed with reason. _Right_?_

_H__is clothes are begun to be dragged again. It becomes stronger and stronger and stronger…_

Petrie almost licked the ground when Bear pulled his pants powerfully. He blinked confusedly, looking exactly like someone who just woke up from a deep sleep. He shook his head and tried to rub his memories out of his eyes. He still heard the blood pounding in his ears, but his dog made sure his holder had returned to reality completely. He started barking loudly, almost biting his owner's thigh.

"Hey! Bear! Take it easy, buddy! What's gotten into you?" Sean snorted in astonishment and stroked the animal's face. But the dog was adamant—he continued barking and began to jump, nodding his head toward the exit. "What's wrong?" Petrie asked, but knowing that Bear wouldn't be able to answer with words, began to follow him, leaving the chaos in the middle of the building.

Bear led Sean to the meadow. He sprinted so fast his owner could hardly follow him. He no longer could run that fast, those days were gone. The dog suddenly stopped, starting to yelp even more excited.

"What the hell's wrong, pal?" Petrie gasped when he finally caught up with Bear. He wasn't able to say more, his words stuck in his throat when he noticed a strange green-skinned figure lying in the grass broken, wounded, and bloody.

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_(...)_

_I know, you probably have many questions, but don't worry, they'll be answered as the story slowly unfolds._  
_Please let me know what you think. :)_

_xx_


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